


Every Year

by Eyvaera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 4th of July, ConfedUK, Confred, Fourth of July, Gen, Independence Day - Freeform, July 4th, M/M, South, SweetTea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyvaera/pseuds/Eyvaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fourth of July came around every year, as it must, but this time he would not be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Year

**Author's Note:**

> Modern times.  
> Picture South/Confred as Alfred is, add in the stereotypes of a 'Southern Gentleman' and minus Nantucket. Keep Texas/his glasses.
> 
> Pre-relationship.
> 
> This is a short ficlet that came to me today, on the evening before, and as this was the only way I could express the idea, I wrote it.

* * *

                It was the same, every year, but this was the first one that Alfred witnessed.

                He had been invited around in shaky tones across the telephone, and Alfred wondered whether he was picturing calling the doppelganger to his face and name; the 'real' Alfred F. Jones. He didn't linger on this for long, glad instead to take him up on the offer of company and oblivious to what it would inevitably entail, for it was not until a few days into his stay that he realised his presence was both a help and a hinder to Arthur, and he had certainly not expected the state he often found the older man in.

                Arthur would slip, when he thought Alfred wasn't looking, from the forced politeness of a host to a bent-over form, clutching at his chest as if he found it difficult to breathe, and slipping unnamable alcohol into his drinks in a way less clandestine than he intended. He coughed more often than not, rasping with a grating or wet accompaniment, and gained a pallid, drawn look. Though his mouth always pulled up into a smile and a reassurance when Alfred enquired after his health, it was a weak attempt, almost as if he truly wanted him to notice. Alfred began to realise why Arthur had asked him over, and it wasn't for conversation and cards.

                One evening, on the third of July, after dinner had been cleared away and Arthur had invited him into another room for brandy (although it seemed to Alfred that he was pouring himself whiskey instead), Arthur's careful demeanour cracked entirely. One moment he was pouring Alfred a glass from a decanter on the side table, and the next he was physically trembling, downing the heady liquid of his own far too quickly. The tears it brought to his eyes did not fade, but were replaced instead with ones of thick emotion. He bit back a choked sob, turned away from his guest and attempted to hide his shaking form in the shadows of the ill-lit room. Alfred was having none of it.

                "Arthur," he began, and in response the other man stifled another choked sob. Damn him for having a voice so similar to the Yankee's.

" _Arthur,_ " he tried again, this time with more of the smooth drawl of his accent, pleased with how Arthur did not respond similarly this time. He stepped forward, just as Arthur filled his tumbler to the brim and tried to down the whole lot in one. Alfred caught his hand before he could drink even half of it; alcohol could drown a lot of sorrows, he found, but this wasn't to be one of them. He suspected that Arthur had been using this method for far too long, and if it hadn't worked through every year of every century since, it would not work tonight.

                "I--I can't--" It was barely above a whisper, a small sound Arthur's throat pushed out without his agreement, but it twisted Alfred's chest in a way he could not often recall feeling. Silently, he made him set the glass down and turned Arthur around to face him, pulling the man close against his chest. He wasn't used to this, nor sure what to do, but it seemed to work. Arthur's hesitance was brief -- a hesitance of physical touch that he recognised in himself -- but soon his arms slid around him, hands bunching up the fabric of his jacket at the back. A face pressed between his shoulder and neck, and barely a moment passed before low, racking sobs released like the sorrows of the world were falling upon him. By instinct, he tightened his own arms around Arthur's form as he shook almost violently with them, his wailing cries of long-felt pain the only sounds echoing around the room.

                It lasted a long while, by Alfred's standards. He didn't glance at the mantle-clock, but it felt to him as though the best part of ten minutes passed before Arthur started to calm again. He would be embarrassed, he felt, at his display of raw emotion, and so he clumsily stroked his hands up and down Arthur's back, trying to soothe him further. It seemed to work, for although Arthur pulled back enough to dab at his red, puffy eyes with his handkerchief, he did not excuse himself with stuttered words or try to wash over what had just happened. In fact, he smiled a little, as if grateful, and Alfred wondered how long it had been since Arthur had had someone with him during this time.

                "Thank you," he murmured at last, and Alfred thought he needn't have said it. He watched Arthur think something over, try to form the words, and then further flush his already reddened cheeks as he seemed to come to terms with how close they still were.

"I, erm..." The older man began, then composed himself and started again. "Would you... come with me tomorrow? I have to give him a gift."

                Alfred considered Arthur to not _have_ to, but as he seemed to want to, he supposed it was one and the same. Pondering his response did not take long; looking at Arthur like this was not something Alfred had ever imagined. It was like looking into the open, vulnerable heart of a creature he had thought too stout and proud to have one. He raised a hand on impulse to Arthur's cheek, pressed his palm against the heated skin and traced the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone. It was a gesture that flowed as easily as the promise of his next words, although he was not quite sure why, yet.

                "I will accompany you _every year."_


End file.
